


No Suitable Greetings Card

by shinobi93



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Post-Series, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coalition needs to up their personality from 'heartless' to 'loveable', Mary Drake's taking over the world one department at a time, and Fergus finds himself in an unusual situation: engaged to Adam Kenyon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Completely for alichay, who I should thank like this is an Oscar speech for getting me into TTOI, then trying to convert everyone to her little ship. If you've not read her fic [The Eastbourne Ultimatum](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1035662) then go do it now. Hers is the Proper Political Backstory fic, mine's the ridiculous romcom.
> 
> Written because, well, TTOI always needs more trope fic to balance out all the proper political stuff. Also, it was fun.
> 
> No warnings apply as far as I'm aware, other than the obvious abundance of expletives/general offensiveness in keeping with the show.

All is quiet in the Department for Social Affairs and Citizenship. Not because things are running smoothly (as Fergus knows that would be far too fucking easy), but due to the usual advisors being away at some Number 10 mandated meeting or training workshop or something else that Fergus had just nodded at when Adam mentioned it. Peter Mannion, the smug prick, had grinned at the freedom from the angel and devil on his shoulders and barricaded himself in his office. Well, he shut the door, and Fergus has no qualms at keeping that state of existence for as long as possible. Halle-fucking-lujah is his official comment.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor doesn’t cause Fergus any concern, not even to look up from staring blankly at his computer screen. People walk past all the time; offices are a pain like that. Glaring at his photo on the party website and wishing he had the power to make somebody change it is taking up far too much of his time.

‘FER-GUS!’ 

Mary Drake’s dulcet tones ring out, from Peter’s office it sounds like. Fergus gives one last glance at the awkward pose and pained facial expression that greets the three pensioners who’ve ever stumbled across his page on the website, and leaves for whatever he’s about to be subjected to.

Outside Peter’s office door, Fergus fiddles with his tie like a schoolboy called before the headmaster, an apt comparison considering that is exactly what he feels like. Mary has been appearing around the department too often, a pest they can’t get rid of ‘until DoSAC steps up to the A game’ as she likes to chant, aggressively, in the face of Peter. Adam and Fergus exchange looks whenever this happens. Raised eyebrows, in sync after a few years of practice. Fergus likes these unconscious moments, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Camaraderie, he tells himself.

‘Ah, Fergus, so lovely for you to join us,’ Mary says as he walks in. She has her ‘I’ll sound calm and happy whilst I twist your balls politically’ voice on, which does not bode well. Nobody even knows why she spends so much time at DoSAC, but they have learnt to interpret her tones and mannerisms. Peter grins in triumph at passing the baton over to his junior minister. The glee of Tucker’s departure lasted only a few weeks, and since then Peter has clearly been searching for new ways to laugh at other cunts’ expenses. Especially Fergus’.

‘Mary,’ he replies curtly. Fucking get on with it, he thinks.

‘As I was just saying to Peter here, we’re looking for a volunteer. Well, more of a pushed volunteer by this point, but we wouldn’t tell the press about that adjective, of course.’

Fergus nods, wondering if somebody has to do a charity swim, freeze their bollocks off in the Thames or, heaven forbid, the Channel. Channel swim for governmental loyalty: JB would be fucked.

‘The PM needs a lovable, fluffy opinion, something modern and friendly and not mentioning the word “cuts” in any way at all.’ Mary smiles, with a slight evil twist that Fergus is relatively sure has stepped up a level since those backbench party fucknuts started complaining that JB was being too much of a nancy liberal. ‘And he has settled upon equal marriage.’

Fergus gasps out loud. The expelled air hisses round the room and meets Peter’s equivalent gasp. Equal marriage has so far been the equivalent of hypothetical plans made with an irritating acquaintance: mentioned in a placating style, but hollow and unlikely to be brought up again, even if they try and steer the subject towards it.

‘And you need a volunteer to announce this false shit because nobody will believe JB’s shiny face without seeing their own boredom reflected back?’ Peter pipes up, rolling his eyes. Fergus wishes he could snigger, but their animosity runs far too deep for that.

‘Actually, no. Actions speak louder than words,’ Mary states, which would have far more meaning if it wasn’t both her catchphrase and already a cliché _before_ she’d adopted it.

‘Must be pretty loud actions to beat the sound of your voice,’ says Peter in a stage whisper. Fergus, however, holds back on the comments because he is working out the meaning beneath her words.

‘You mean-’ he starts, stammering slightly under her gaze. A politician that handles pressure badly: almost a joke, if it wasn’t so common in Westminster.

‘Yes, Fergus. Are you willing to reflect the diversity of the modern day party, and of modern day society?’ He stares back in disbelief. ‘Not forever. Find someone, someone male of course, announce your engagement and make speeches about your desire to get married like everybody else. Give it some time, be seen by paparazzi being boring and happy, and then you can quietly break up. Pressures of the spotlight and the job or whatever shit they need to be told. Oh look, we’re the good guys suddenly!’

Mary’s voice actually gets louder as she concludes, spinning her little sales pitch into some saving the party bullshit. Fergus knows it won’t go as swimmingly as she’s just described, but before he has a chance to think on it further, she takes a step closer, lines appearing on her face.

‘You will say yes, won’t you Fergus? Unmarried, young, political nothing: you are the real face of the coalition.’ 

She smiles to herself. Behind her, Peter is sniggering from his desk. Probably for the first time in his life, thanking fuck he’s married, Fergus later decides, but at this point he has no time for deciding. No decisions but one ill-considered word, accompanied by sweating palms and a lack of realisation about what he has gotten himself into.

‘Okay.’

 

-

 

Adam isn’t sure he knows enough expletives to get across his disbelief.

‘You did fucking what? Christ on a fucking tandem, Fergus you _twat_. This isn’t some fucking policy launch, a one off “look like an awkward cunt whilst the press give you new nicknames based on the pile of shit you’re trying to sell to them”, this is a fucking life decision.’

‘It’ll only be for a bit,’ Fergus retorts, fiddling with a paperclip on his desk. Adam itches to take the paperclip off him, tell him nervous twitches won’t help, but he doesn’t. Let him panic, if it makes him realise what he’s signed up for: saving those posh wankers from utter alienation of the people whilst digging their own grave with inevitable faux pas from the less media savvy members of the party. The poster boy for ‘no, we’re not homophobic, we have gay marriage in action’. Could be career suicide, but, Adam thinks, on the other hand, could give Fergus the sympathy card in a coalition seen as heartless automatons.

And suddenly, as the protective advisor side slips, he realises what this means.

‘Wait,’ says Adam, ‘who’re you getting engaged to? Your secret boyfriend?’

Fergus laughs nervously, at least five shades higher pitched than normal. Fucking hell, Adam’s never seen someone look so uncomfortable at the word ‘boyfriend’, especially not considering they’re about to fake having one. He takes this in whilst his mind races, wondering who on earth out of Fergus’ list of friends would accept to do such a thing. Over half of Fergus’ male friends, Adam knows (some with a more intimate knowledge than others), are gay or bi, but most are in relationships, and the rest are probably not big enough fans of the government to get into a faux engagement for them. Not many people are big enough fans of anything for that. Adam feels a surge of jealousy at whoever it is, instinctive jealousy that he is not surprised by.

‘I was wondering,’ starts Fergus, in his real tone of nervous asking rather than the fake one he uses with Terri, the one that usually ends with him shouting at her to do her fucking job and Adam giving her a two fingered gesture behind her back whilst they giggle like schoolboys. Adam waits out Fergus’ silence, believing he knows what is coming. He’ll say yes, of course he will, because he’s only casually sleeping with Christian and he’s sure that he claiming he had a secret boyfriend, now fiancé, won’t be that much of a shock. What if he’s wrong, he panics as Fergus still doesn’t finish his sentence, what if Adam isn’t the most trusted option for a sham engagement, what if Fergus wants to fake-marry someone else? There’s no clear etiquette for how long after someone’s fake-break-up you can kill the cunt they were fake-engaged to, probably with garden shears and a focus on the smaller appendages first. Fergus finally clears his throat and continues.

‘-if you’d do it?’

 

-

 

The first step is coming to terms with what you must do or, in Fergus’ case, learning how to say the words ‘I want to be able to marry my boyfriend’ without turning a shade of maroon that makes Adam crack up laughing. His love life has always been interspersed with a lot of turning shades of red, awkward stammering and uncertainty; now, he just has to turn that into something that seems adorable rather than pathetic, or worse, embarrassed. Fergus cannot be embarrassed.

That initial hurdle cleared, or at least stumbled over like the unfit kid forced to do athletics, it is time for Fergus to be unleashed upon the world in his new role as ambassador for equal marriage, slowly at first because nobody, not even Fergus himself, is sure how he’s going to act in the spotlight. Start simple: telling people in the office, organising the speech and press conference to announce his support of the policy. It’s the day before said press conference, making it time to tell the world, if DoSAC was the world. The PM’s sticking the equal marriage support into his speech this afternoon, like a tasty friendly filling to an otherwise smug and charmless ramble, giving Fergus a whole night afterwards to read over the mocking of the government’s sudden claim to progressive views before he has to say anything in public.

Reluctantly he leaves his dining table, spooning a final pile of Shreddies (not Shredded Wheat, because no matter how hard he tries he knows they’re just not as good as Shreddies) into his mouth as he stands. Milk leaps from the spoon and ends up down his tie. Fucking typical. Not wanting to be late, he does nothing but chuck the bowl into the sink, running cold water into it because he’s not coming home tonight. Adam rather wisely pointed out that it probably should seem like they spent the night before the public announcement of their engagement together, quite insistently suggested that Fergus stay over in his spare room, and Fergus agreed, knowing he needs every spare detail he can get.

The car’s waiting outside. He sits fiddling with his shirt cuffs as it drives through the morning traffic towards DoSAC. This is the easy bit, he reminds himself. Adam will be there, writing most of his speech for him in true ex-journalist style, and only Peter and his bickering advisors know the truth in the department. Others in the higher echelons of government must also know his soon-to-be-common-knowledge relationship is a sham, those Mary Drake has told in fake hushed tones because she has designs on taking over as M in the Bond films after Judi Dench, but they need Fergus’ sacrifice more than he does. Their very image of tolerance is on the line. Since Tucker’s fall from grace, or rather his plummet into a vat of shit stirred round by everyone in Westminster, it has been a battle to seem trustworthy, kind, the good side of politics to his darkness. Equal marriage is their hope; if, that is, Fergus can pull off being the common touch, the link to reality rather than the vague abstractions JB usually talks in.

‘How’s the top governmental lackey feeling?’ Adam asks with a grin the second Fergus walks into his office. He’s waiting, sitting in an armchair with a folder that looks ominously like something Mary will have brought round.

‘Pretty good, because I’m getting credit for this, whereas you are just my coincidental fiancé,’ replies Fergus, dumping down the three bags he’s had to carry from the car. ‘Don’t fucking tell me that’s more orders from Commander Drake?’

‘Exactly that. Look on the bright side: Phil nearly dropped all his Barbies when he realised we get special deliveries from her.’

Despite his fear of what her instructions are this time, Fergus is pleased with this news: Phil will flap around like someone cancelled one of his favourite fucking TV shows, then will tell Peter amidst panicked breathing and attempts to reference outdated musicians. If there’s anything better than sending Phil into a tailspin of envy, it’s getting one over on Peter.

The day progresses well at first. The folder contains handwritten notes about what the PM is likely to say in his speech, how Fergus could play off that, and what he must avoid saying. Adam rolls his eyes as he reads the bullet points aloud. Emma comes in to check up on a policy document and leaves with the question ‘are you two fake-engaged yet or have you got to set the mood, light some candles and put on your special song first?’. Adam retorts with ‘oh fuck off back to bitchville’, but it is clear his heart isn’t in it, even though he and Emma tend to do the mocking every day like clockwork. Today, they have a more important job to do. Fergus needs to spread his news around the office before JB’s speech, so that it appears well-timed if not coincidental, rather than forced.

Kicked out of his own office by Adam until he’s told at least five people, Fergus stammers his way through saying ‘I’m engaged’ to a confused looking member of communications who just nods and leaves without asking who to. There wasn’t even anybody around to overhear, he laments, when usually DoSAC is full of gossip-vultures, ready to air the shitty laundry of any poor twat who is foolish enough to let anything slip. He slips between desks, wondering if he could pass a note around the room, when he realises the solution was staring him in the face. Well, more accurately, the solution’s bright pink ensemble was staring him in the face.

Terri breaks off from her conversation with Robin as Fergus approaches, looking like she’s been handed a lifeline (which Fergus resents doing, but desperate times).

‘Terri, I need to tell you something,’ Fergus states. She waits, watching him, in all likeliness expecting to be told she has to do more work (he wouldn’t’ve been so polite if so). ‘I’m engaged.’

‘That’s nice, dear.’ 

Terri gives him a patronising look, like he just told her he’d made a picture out of macaroni, and turns to walk away, probably wishing she’d continued talking to Robin.

‘To Adam.’

Terri halts.

‘Adam Kenyon?’ she asks as she turns back.

‘No, somebody fucking else called Adam that we both know. Yes, Adam Kenyon.’

‘Well, that is interesting,’ says Terri in her _I’m pretending to be casual but really I’m about to send a memo round the office with caps lock and too many exclamation marks_ voice. ‘Are you sure?’

Fergus stares in confusion. ‘What?’

‘Just...you two struck me as “the awkward boys who won’t admit their feelings” type,’ she admits, pulling a face usually seen on politicians forced to admit something in the spotlight. Fergus should know; he’s been there.

‘Well, we’re not,’ says Fergus, a shade too aggressive. ‘We’re the fucking get married type.’

‘Or just the fucking type?’ Robin pipes up. Fergus hadn’t even realised she was listening. He turns a shade of red barely better than maroon, which luckily, it appears, they take as embarrassment that he is discussing his sex life in public. As if he’d have sex with Adam, he thinks. As if. Adam wouldn’t even want to have sex with him. It is only a few minutes later, having left Terri and Robin to spread the news around DoSAC without him having to strip down and run through the office with ‘I’m engaged to Adam’ emblazoned on his chest, that he notices the sharp jab of annoyance he felt at that final thought.

Hours later, Fergus trails back to his office after a final meeting with Mary, because she apparently has as much faith in him as she would in a trained dog doing the same thing. Perhaps less, because trained dogs are probably obedient twats, like those fuckers on Crufts that can line dance. Adam looks up from his laptop, sitting on the office sofa as he has been for pretty much all the day.

‘Final draft of the speech seems to be a-okay. Home?’

‘Right. Together?’

‘Of fucking course. We’re engaged.’ Adam smirks. ‘If you’re lucky I’ll even make you pre-speech breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Knew there was a reason I was marrying you.’

Fergus only hopes he can sound as confident in the speech tomorrow. For a second, just a fleeting moment, it had felt easy to say.

 

-

 

Adam wakes up ten minutes before his alarm and glares into the gloom of his monochrome bedroom. He has written the speech, coached Fergus on body language whilst they watched a shitty Channel 4 documentary the night before, and can do nothing else, as it is not possible to hold his hand through the actual speech. Technically, it might add some bite, but it would probably make Fergus explode with embarrassment from the first touch, so best not. Anything to get through the speech, get out the announcement and the support for the policy that JB announced, to a remarkable lack of mockery, the day before (Adam’s theory currently is that they are waiting to see if the government fucks up, comes across as even more bigoted than before, before really laying into them).

He does as he promised and makes Fergus breakfast, eggs benedict that a one night stand at university taught him the next morning before they never saw one another again. On his nice white plates it looks far more impressive than it is, or so Adam assumes from Fergus’ awestruck expression.

After their first car journey to work together (Adam assumes he ought to make some hints that it isn’t the first, however, but they were merely good at hiding it before), they arrive at DoSAC to the chorus of one nosy, peering Terri Coverley and a couple of more lowly civil servants standing behind her like cronies. Barely anyone else is in the department yet; Adam guesses Peter is sulking at home for not being centre of attention.

Fergus paces round his office like a caged tiger, muttering phrases from the speech under his breath like shit enchantments, so Adam goes to make tea in the very picture of domesticity (and because Fergus doesn’t seem to know where the office tea comes from). The DoSAC mug selection gives him pause for thought, with offensive-slogan-emblazoned ones lurking behind the regimental department logo set, sniggering to himself as he picks the ‘I’m a twat’ one for Fergus. The man needs to lighten up, Adam thinks, or his speech will come across like one of those fucking films about the heartwarming robot that finds love but can only express it in a creepy fucking mechanical voice. Coming out of the mouse hole that houses the kettle, he nearly walks into Emma.

‘Bride getting cold feet?’ she asks with a grin. ‘Cup of tea and reminder that it’s the happiest day of his life?’

‘What are you doing to help the coalition stay in power? Oh, that’s right, fuck all, except making sure Peter doesn’t fall down a time crack to his natural habitat as a Victorian factory owner crushing orphans with his walking stick,’ Adam replies.

Underneath it all, he admires Emma in some ways. Opportunistic, wrapped in layers of snarkiness and a talent for spotting where the words should hit: familiar territory to him. Their banter is harsh, because that is how they play. One major area in which they differ, however, is in loyalties: Adam’s is to Fergus now, a stumble into politics not quite as much planned as considered and suddenly enacted, whereas Emma is not loyal to Peter, but to her own ambition. Adam’s ambition took a nose dive whilst at the Mail’s night desk; he was surrounded by such fucking morons, battling confused stories and aims, that the definite goal of advising Fergus was a welcome relief, despite the hard work.

Tea forced into Fergus’ hands, Adam looks over stuff for the next few days, the preemptive fallout countering and the reinforcing the message of the progressive, kind government. Political point scoring: marriage ain’t so sacred any more. Adam works on through Fergus’ panic, which the tea is doing little to abate, because now he’s committed to this policy and this sham personally, he’s not letting anything be second rate.

Finally, when Fergus’ muttering starts gaining a tune and it seems likely he might do the entire speech in the style of a classic musical, Adam stands up and strides over. He grabs Fergus by the wrists forcefully, but his tone when he speaks is relatively quiet.

‘Stand still.’

Fergus looks at him like a skittish animal.

‘Breathe. You make speeches all the time. This is no different.’

Fergus looks like he’s about to argue, but changes his mind. Adam is glad, as he’s convincing himself at the same time. No big deal, people get fake-engaged to the best friend they’re also slightly attracted to all the time.

‘You’ll be there, right?’ Fergus asks instead, looking away.

‘Of course.’ He pauses, lets the reassurance sink in, then adds, ‘it’s my engagement announcement too.’

No need to sound too sentimental after all. Marriage is sentimental enough as it is. He steps away, Fergus seeming calmer, and looks over the plan for later one last time. The speech is being made in the building’s huge lobby, on the grounds that it would make it look more like a reception party than a political announcement, complete with nibbles to pretend Fergus didn’t just tie in a major life announcement with a governmental change of direction. Fergus must stand on the stage, say his words in a relaxed and unembarrassed manner, then circulate with Adam until journalists have got bored of staring at them and mentally thinking up adjectives for the reports, and have left for more scandalous news elsewhere.

His phone buzzes. A text from Emma, which he opens, assuming it is gloating about how likely Fergus is to fuck up.

_speech bingo?_

A game that initiated as Emma’s mockery whilst Phil looked on, confused, turned into a full-blown competition between Adam and her, in which they predict Fergus’ gestures and tics of speech when he addresses the public. Adam considers the alternative (standing alone wringing his hands to resist the temptation to either grab Fergus off stage if he messes up or throttle anyone who takes the announcement negatively) and replies in the affirmative.

 

-

 

‘You did the swimming-through-custard arms,’ Emma calls out gleefully as he leaves the small stage erected for his speech, but Fergus is not listening. His head is screaming to go to Adam, but not because of the plan. The carefully expounded plan, highlighted in garish yellow by Mary when she came over on one of her many trips to check up on DoSAC, left his brain about the point that he said in full media-mode, ‘I have an announcement’.

The press are surging forward, not in a mob like the end of a court case but in the politely hounding way acceptable at such events. A few stragglers hang back, probably waiting for later to drop a nasty question Fergus’ way, and out of the corner of his eye as he gestures as the hacks to let him past, he sees Angela Heaney chatting to Emma. It is confusing, as he had thought she’d left journalism.

Fergus is finding it difficult to focus on the more pressing issues, but Adam’s look snaps him back. It is not a congratulatory look, nor a ‘well done my fiancé’ fake smile, but one Fergus thinks he recognises as annoyance. By the point he’s almost deciphered the look, they are in front of one another. People have left a space around them, perhaps expecting an argument. Fergus is not sure why they would, considering what he just announced.

‘Very good,’ says Adam loudly, but the emphasis on the consonants does not agree, and sure enough, he follows it up with a hiss under his breath. ‘Do you want this to fucking work?’

Fergus throws him a hurt glance, but says brightly, ‘Do you want to get a drink?’. Nearby journalists hear and already their eyes dart towards the table of sparkling water and orange juice, the makings of a midday announcement. They will pounce the second Fergus has chosen his soft drink, which gives little time to whisper back and get a suitable response.

‘Of course I do.’

Adam ignores this answer, instead picking up a glass of San Pellegrino (they used to opt for Highland Spring, but either through pretentiousness or a hope of avoiding Malcolm Tucker’s Scottish connections, the department recently switched brands). To anybody else, they are having a personal moment after the announcement of their engagement, before sharing preprepared, hollow stories with the press. To Fergus, who knows that Adam does not like sparkling water (‘why’s it fucking everywhere, it’s just water with bubbles?’), it is avoidance, and it is the promise that there is more to come, too much for a hushed conversation over a drinks table. He picks up an identical glass and turns to face the people. The poster boy for the government’s progressive stance must be seen to enjoy it.

 

-

 

Finally, the only people left are DoSAC employees and journalists so low down the food chain that they will linger until it is certain there is no additional sentence or two to be wrenched out of the event, possibly with a pair of pliers. Adam knows the sort: probably write for something exclusively online, desperate to get given any assignment, but too terrified to have an actual stance on the story in question. They will scribble down, or indeed furiously type, how cheerful and friendly Fergus Williams MP was as he greeted guests, as if this happiness will reflect well upon them. Phil’s left to trail after Peter checking that he doesn’t need a biscuit or someone to kiss his arse, but Emma’s still around; ostensibly, Adam knows, to watch over the event for Mary, who has taken a liking to Emma perhaps like a predator notices which scavengers would make good followers, but she’s actually standing talking to Angela again.

(Adam’s not questioning why Angela’s there, despite knowing she’s only working freelance as a journalist at the moment whilst she writes a book Adam is fairly certain will only just escape libel prosecutions, because he knows Emma invited her so they could see the shambles that would be Fergus’ announcement. Angela was never meant to know the truth. Unfortunately, her ability to read Adam like a book, an aftermath of their friendship formed over the war zone of the Mail, and also being the girlfriend of Emma ‘no political conscience’ Messinger meant that she found out, although did agree to secrecy when Adam confronted her, with an unnerving, knowing look that he’s not yet uncovered the meaning of.)

Adam pulls at Fergus’ arm insistently, hoping to convey ‘we need to talk’ without actual talking. The junior minister utters some closing pleasantries to those around him and follows Adam out of the lobby and into the lift. Trapped in the rising metal prison, he will have to listen.

‘Are you trying to fuck it all up?’ snaps Adam as the lift starts to move. He is attempting to be calm.

‘No,’ replies Fergus defensively.

‘Well stop acting like the fucking nervous kid at the school nativity play then, about to piss his pants in embarrassment because he’s playing Mary.’

‘That only happens at boys’ school.’

There’s a pause, in which Adam considers punching him, before realising how pathetic it’d make Fergus look. He can’t do that to him.

‘You said the word “boyfriend” like it was an oath to fucking Satan, burning a cock onto your tongue instead of a pentagram,’ Adam continues instead. ‘If you were planning on fucking up being Mary Drake’s bitch, you could’ve at least left me out of it. Now, if they see through you, they’ll come after me too, like we’re partners in a shit bank heist. See the men who co-opted same sex marriage for their careers and laugh at how fucking awful they are.’

‘They won’t. It wasn’t that-’

‘-bad? It was. If you fucking keep that up, they’ll be calling you homophobic by the end of the week.’

Fergus fiddles with his tie, which always drives Adam insane.

‘But I’m not-’

‘-homophobic?’ The lift pings as they hit the right floor. ‘You’d better fucking not be, you’re engaged to a man.’ Adam steps out, not quite ashamed of the dramatic flair that leads him to turn back to face Fergus, still in the lift. ‘And that man is me.’


	2. Chapter 2

Fergus reads through the BBC News headlines on his iPad and absent-mindedly eats toast. There’s jam on it, good jam, far better jam than he buys. Across the table, Adam has three broadsheets lined up like game show prizes, trying to simultaneously read all three. He’s eating identical toast, but it’s his jam and his plates. Fergus bought the bread though; they’ve been taking turns for the past three months. Time spent with Fergus living mostly in Adam’s spare room: as he has explained in at least two interviews, they are not completely moving in together until ‘after their marriage’, but are cohabiting in a loose sense until then, or, in fact, until their fake break up from the fake engagement.

He thinks about this as he eats his toast, bored of the headlines telling him yesterday’s news. It’ll come as a shock. No more good jam, no more Adam yelling at him to stop leaving his stuff on the sofa, no more cackling at Channel 4’s programming over late night policy revision. 

It’s not all been fun and games, though: there’s been plenty of arguing over ill-prepared interviews and whether Fergus should be allowed to choose his own ties for media appearances (the latter has been hard fought, for Fergus likes his ties and Adam wants to burn most of them). There’s early starts, late nights (Fergus likes the camaraderie of those though, the coffee brewing and joke slinging and the satellites of paper they construct around the living room), and the disaster known as the time Peter accidentally ran into Nicola Murray on the street and the papers decided they were forming their own splinter group. Peter had shouted so much he’d started to resemble the Comic Relief mascot and Emma had nearly embedded a pen in Phil’s eye for suggesting they actually form a cabal of some kind, but Adam and Fergus had giggled from Fergus’ office as the chaos ensued and enacted scenes from, as they termed the rumour, ‘two political fuckwits form a losers’ club’.

‘Look at this,’ says Adam, now further into his newspaper selection. He reads aloud, as he often does when he finds something that’ll interest Fergus, or they can mock. ‘ _Suggestions that Tucker’s former press officer Jamie Macdonald is vying for Reeder’s position have been denied by both a spokesperson for the Opposition and Macdonald himself. Photographs have been captured, however, of Macdonald meeting Tucker’s old PA, leading to rumours that they are both in contact with the disgraced former Director of Communications whilst he completes his prison sentence_.’

‘And we thought we were fucked. This sounds like the end of fucking Tinker Tailer Solider Spy,’ replies Fergus. ‘Someone’s gotta put down Malcolm Tucker, he’s haunting their party like a fucking ghost.’

‘Him and Jamie Macdonald, do you think they ever-?’ 

Adam raises his eyebrows and smirks. Fergus laughs, about to make some joke about terrifying Scotsmen, then Adam continues talking. 

‘Long evenings together plotting how to kill everyone in Westminster very gruesomely, something must’ve happened…’

Fergus thinks of the evenings in Adam’s flat he enjoys so much and nearly chokes on his toast.

‘People don’t that about us, do they?’ he blurts out. Adam raises his eyebrows.

‘Fucking hopefully, or this’d be for nothing, wouldn’t it?’

Reason returns to Fergus and he nods, taking a gulp from his orange juice to try and cover up the previous choking. Adam looks at him suspiciously, but says nothing. Fergus curses internally every time he slips up like this, every time he panics about how people see him and Adam before remembering once again that they’re doing it intentionally. Most of the show, the spending evenings together and chatting over breakfast (which they now justify as pre-work news catch up), the standing close together at policy launches and letting lone photographers with no better news to snap them in Tesco Metro looking intently at milk, has become normal over the past couple of months.

Before, they spent most of the working day together. Adam was always there offering an opinion or a suggestion, storing up things Fergus said for when Fergus forgot them. He liked it, like backing up your ideas without doing anything but saying them aloud. Once or twice, Adam had pointed out something Fergus had thought about but was certain he’d never actually put into words. They’d both exchange a look, a look which agreed they would not question it, and move on.

Now though, Adam is around not only for the advising or the memorising Fergus’ occasional decent ideas, but also for judging his ability to cook and belittling his few npower stories with ridiculous Mail night desk anecdotes that mostly end up with Angela Heaney stopping Adam murdering people. They smile and eat fancy crisps at Number 10 events where Mary Drake lurks just out of earshot, occasionally introducing people to them as the junior minister and his fiancé. Once she turns her back, Adam always shoots Fergus a look, which Fergus assumes is his ‘why the fuck have I been relegated from advisor to fiancé?’, and later they inevitably go back to Adam’s flat because if they’re staying late, there’s no point going home separately.

There’s no point going home separately much these days. They have an illusion to keep up, after all.

Breakfast is over. It is time for another day at DoSAC, of Terri’s strangely supportive comments and of Phil’s confused jokes, as he still doesn’t know how he wants to mock their fake engagement. Of the ever ticking clock until Fergus has to go back to his own, messier home and less exciting condiments. He’s sure those are the things he’ll miss.

 

-

 

Lack of sex is Adam’s greatest qualm at the moment. He’s decided this over the period of a two hour meeting he had no desire to attend, but both Phil and Emma had sold him out to Mary as the least busy of the three when she’d asked who could go. Unusually united for them, but they were being truthful: despite his major role in Fergus’ current turn in the political spotlight, and his behind-the-scenes important that now extends to his own dining table and sofa, he is not meant to be too visible at other political events. Rather, Emma is usually sent to keep an eye on Fergus, whilst Adam stays behind in the office and keeps up to date via text and the TV. That way, people associate him with the apparent honesty of their relationship, not the everyday politics that they so mistrust. Adam can’t fault it, despite his annoyance at not being able to do his job properly. Nobody else knows how to yell at Fergus until he stops jerking around awkwardly quite so much.

The woman heading the meeting is droning on about interdepartmental unity and initiatives with fancy titles that mean nothing, so Adam moves on from his decision about the greatest downside of the current situation (it wasn’t too difficult to make, if he’s honest, more glaringly obvious) and starts to muse on whether said downside would be more bearable if he didn’t basically live in close quarters with Fergus now.

If Fergus was a different kind of guy, Adam would have opted for just shagging him and getting that done with, but it is very clear that, even if he was attracted enough to Adam, afterwards Fergus would panic and flap and expect it to mean far more than it would. Adam’s heard enough offhand comments and slightly tipsy confessions after a couple of pints to know that Fergus’ love life is populated by vast spaces and a lot of fucking indecision. He pictures this indecision stretching to Fergus responding to a direct proposition of sex with an embarrassed ‘maybe’, then realises he should stop picturing this in a meeting of bored advisors. He should probably stop picturing it all together, should stop picturing Fergus doing anything that isn’t being a successful politician in an entirely unattractive way.

It’s a resolution unlikely to be kept.

The meeting ends soon, so Adam doesn’t need to bore his own eyes out with a government logo pen today. Instead he returns to DoSAC, where he runs into Terri and Emma talking about something that makes them immediately shut up when they see him. He would’ve been suspicious regardless; Emma and Terri don’t _talk_.

‘Mary spoke to Fergus,’ Terri informs him with a significant look, then walks off. She clearly thinks it’s something bad, but Adam’s already had a text from Fergus telling him the details. Emma coughs loudly to stop him walking off.

‘Do you have the folder about the Electro Minds launch? I need to brief Peter.’

‘I thought I was doing the launch,’ he replies, wondering if he missed a memo giving everything in the fucking department to Mannion the same way everything else in his life has been handed to him.

Emma stares at him, furrowing her eyebrows.

‘Did you just use “I” for Fergus?’

He did, but he’s not admitting that.

‘Think you’re getting all fucking sentimental. I was talking about the briefing.’

She looks confused, considers it for a second, but shakes her head as if she can’t be bothered.

‘Whatever. I need the folder before you fuck off to shag your boyfriend.’

‘Calm your tits, I’m getting it,’ he retorts weakly, then leaves.

The ‘I’ thing was a mistake, a quirk he’s been doing sporadically for months and months, but it has grown worse recently. Too much time together: he hears too many of Fergus’ monologued thoughts, gets confused. Automatically goes to defend Fergus’ position, fight on his behalf. It’s just a natural part of being a loyal advisor. Entirely separate from the attraction, he tries to convince himself, but it’s not quite working, especially not when he walks into Fergus’ office to retrieve the folder.

‘So, dinner party?’ says Fergus, words which make sense after his earlier text explaining Mary’s orders. Adam’s not even sure she should still be giving orders, but she is, and they involve some kind of hack dinner party to show their domestic life, but also some potential cracks. He wonders if Mary is overestimating their acting abilities, but then again, he doubts she’s overestimating anything about either of them.

‘Fuck-a-dee, what fun it’ll be.’ Adam puts on a fake voice. ‘Would you like some tripe to go with the news you print?’

‘You bitter ex hack.’

‘Fuck you. Anyway, Mannion’s nicked the Electro Minds thing, which is probably fucking lucky because it sounds like a shit 80s band rather than an actual policy.’

Fergus sniggers. ‘I’d be angry but the policy’s bollocks. Shall we go home?’

Adam smirks and nods. He does not register the word Fergus used.

 

-

 

Fergus is hyperventilating. He is putting out cutlery and he is hyperventilating. His hands shake as he puts down forks and knives, lining them up with the edges of Adam’s nice monochrome placemats. It takes several attempts to get each place setting right. This completed, he tries to slow his breathing down, but it isn’t working. Too much could go wrong. He smoothes down the tablecloth hiding the fact it is two tables pushed together, because Adam’s one wasn’t large enough for a selection of hacks, plus Emma who Mary had commissioned to keep an eye on them. Adam no longer adviser enough when he’s the one needing advice, apparently.

Holding a dinner party is not something he knows how to do. It’s a concept in the same category as ‘care for a pet’ and ‘take up woodworking’: stuff he doesn’t have the fucking time or competence for, but it doesn’t really matter. Until now, when suddenly he’s co-hosting a dinner party, one with place settings and a specific playlist of mundane background jazz and actual homemade food, because it transpired that Adam’s Gordon Ramsay cookbook and a couple of trial runs was enough to stop them having to sneakily order in food to pretend as their own. Fergus had loitered around Adam’s shiny, metallic kitchen for much of the early prep, handing him odd items and laughing as Adam swore viciously at things like courgettes and a spoon he dropped on the floor. Without much else to do, he fussed over stacks of plates and tried not to stare at Adam, shirt sleeves rolled up, attacking a slab of meat with relish. He didn’t want Adam to catch him staring; it might make things weird, when they’ve been going so well.

Now, out of the kitchen to sort out the table, he’s had time to panic, to realise that it’s one thing to convince a lot of people in public, with limited exposure, but in a more informal setting? So many more ways to slip up, so many little details to get right, and that’s not counting the fact Mary wants them to act under pressure, as if Fergus needs to act that.

He stands trying to work out where to put the wine glasses. Right hand side, he thinks, but exactly where, and does it even fucking matter? He goes to leave and ask Adam if they can give the same amount of a shit as normal people and stick the wine glasses on the side for people to put where they want, but he’s still shaking and there’s a glass in his hand. A tremor runs down his arm and Fergus holds his breath, waiting for the crash that doesn’t come. Instead, there’s someone behind him. Someone who appears out of nowhere, right at his shoulder, and whose fingers grasp the wine glass before Fergus can drop it.

‘C’mon, you stupid twat, don’t drop it. We don’t have any spares,’ Adam’s voice says near his ear.

‘Thought you were cooking, Mr Michelin Star?’ he retorts rather than admit his nerves.

Adam puts down the glass carelessly, clearly less bothered about exact placement.

‘There’s nothing I need to do right now, so I came to check up on you. Handy, as you’ve become the world’s shittest waiter.’

‘Fuck off.’

Fergus would say more, but Adam is still very close, right next to his shoulder, and this fact is impossible to ignore. Particularly as Adam then places a hand on his shoulder, casually, like it is nothing.

‘We need to add in the odd touch,’ Adam says, still close to his ear, and it takes Fergus a moment to realise he means at the dinner party. ‘Or we’ll seem too distant. Alright?’

Fergus has no time to agree, as Adam is gone, probably to check on his precious food. He is slightly calmer, just for now, so finishes up with the table setting and changes his shirt, mostly because he’s seen people do that a lot on Come Dine With Me. It’s handy he’s not on Come Dine With Me, however, because one good nose around Adam’s flat would dispel any notion that they are actually engaged. Separate rooms, separate possessions, although the minimal amount of stuff Fergus originally brought over has accumulated to the point where he keeps being shouted at by Adam for leaving his DVDs on Adam’s shelf and making it seem like Adam enjoys watching ‘such shit that I can’t believe you’ve not been drowned in vomit just fucking watching one of them’.

Doorbell. First, thankfully, is Emma, holding a bottle of wine and wearing an evil grin.

‘This had better be worthwhile,’ she warns as she takes off her coat, ‘I’ve got Angela ready to call with an emergency if it gets too much. I’m making no sacrifices for you little boys playing house for some journalists who want be nosy and get free food.’

Fergus nods awkwardly. Emma makes her way into the living room, looking around with interest, whilst he waits in the hall, preparing himself. Media mode, he thinks, fucking media mode. He knows it all in theory, has worked doing press for companies without quite the stakes involved here. His entire career balancing on this one lie.

The hacks arrive, gazing around the place with more hunger than Emma, and not only because they haven’t eaten yet. They want a story, whereas Emma clearly wants to get this over with and go home. Fergus does drinks, hands just about steady enough to pour, and makes awkward jokes about not having Dave Lamb to narrate. Adam’s still in the kitchen, where Fergus really fucking hopes he’s not hiding out to avoid the pleasantries. Someone from the Mail, too new for Adam to know them, peers at the books and DVDs on the shelves, and Fergus is pleased that he can admit his embarrassing taste because it proves that yes, the romantic comedy is his, and suddenly they have a joint DVD collection.

Finally, Adam steps out of the kitchen, wearing an apron that Fergus is pretending vehemently not to find slightly adorable because he does not find any grown men adorable. Everyone is urged to the table with the promise of food. So far, Fergus thinks, it’s been relatively easy.

The starter goes fine, some pâté Adam talks casually about having ‘whipped up’, then turning to Fergus beside him and pretending to shoot himself from under the table. It’s a bad angle for his fake gun. Conversation stays in the realms of food, and the fabricated dates to nice restaurants that the pair had great fun making up go down a treat, almost as well as the wine everyone’s brought in a show of politeness. Adam leaves again for the main course, and Fergus collects up the dishes as an excuse to leave the room. He and Adam exchange a look in the kitchen, but no words in case they’re overheard.

‘Don’t mess it up like last time,’ Fergus calls out as he leaves the kitchen, putting on his best impression of domestic teasing. From beside the oven, Adam raises a middle finger in response.

Beef wellington, TV chef style: prosciutto and pastry and expensive beef. It looks impressive, but Fergus can barely taste it because he’s too busy focusing on everything else. Adam’s hand keeps brushing his, purposefully, as they eat. He shoots Emma a panicked glance as the conversation turns to politics and she starts deflecting it, building towards the smiling ‘but that’s not why we’re here’ as if they’re there for any more reason than to write about the friendly political gay couple that make the coalition look ever so slightly less like soulless robots. Unfortunately, this reminds them of their purpose, and the questions start to focus on Adam and Fergus. Particularly Fergus. He knows his answers, reeling them off over an abandoned plate because he has really lost his appetite. All mundane things, about the practicalities of their work and their relationship and who has annoying habits. Filler material for articles, shit for slow news days.

‘Isn’t it all a bit convenient for the PM, having someone who so openly and personally supports the policy?’

The journalist who asked the question, a guy with glasses and slicked back brown hair, looks at Fergus intently. He’s clearly been waiting for the moment to ask it. Fergus gulps, summons an answer. He knows the words, he knows what to say, but he’s not so sure that they’ll come out as intended. His hands grip the sides of his chair, trying to steady him. _I am an open and honest politician_ , he repeats in his head, _not a sleazy one lying through his teeth about something as important as a committed relationship_. He must project it.

He goes to speak, and then he feels Adam’s hand round one of his, certain and reassuring. A reminder that they’ve planned all this, considered questions and answers until they were giggling at ridiculous ones. The answer he will give, short and sharp and the cheesiest thing ever, was inspired by the romcoms Adam mocks him for, the stupid fucking scenes when people can get away with saying cheesy shit that explains nothing. He’s a politician: it’s exactly what he needs. Fergus goes to put on a fake smile, something to befit the occasion, and realises he already has an idiotic grin on. It’ll do. He turns to look at Adam, both an act and for reassurance, and he’s certain he’ll be mocked for this whole moment for the rest of the time he knows the other man. Still, they’ve come so far now. Fergus turns his head back and addresses the table.

‘Love isn’t convenient.’

 

-

 

Adam is still laughing at Fergus a week later. He can’t help it: Fergus looked like a nervous teenager trying to do an impression of Hugh Grant. The success of the line, the general success of the dinner party (as in, nobody had subsequently published anything exposing their lie), is mysterious, but Adam has to pin at least some of it on how accidentally endearing Fergus ending up being. His clear nerves, his lines inspired by romantic comedies of the late nineties, his overly formal shirt. Everything made them laugh at him, but in a nice way, not a crowd baying for his blood way: look at the silly minister, just wants to marry his boyfriend and not drop his fork.

The problem is, they were meant to fuck it up. Mary wanted drama, snippy comments and underlying arguments and the suggestion that all was not well. Their vaguely inept dinner party hosting and Fergus’ puppy-like need for reassurance from Adam after half the things he said came across, according to Emma who was scrutinising the whole thing, like they were basically functioning like a normal couple, if a somewhat needy one on Fergus’ side (Fergus seems to be denying this alternatively by swearing and by pointedly not talking to Adam for an hour or two in a show of self-sufficiency).

A plan has to be made. Soon it’ll be four months since their fake engagement was announced, four months of governmental debate over the exact details of the equal marriage bill and decisions made and Fergus smiling in front of a camera after all of them, being asked the same mundane questions. The work’s been done, so now Fergus can escape the spotlight, still occasionally proclaim his support but mostly, hopefully, just be the junior minister with slightly more support from Mary Drake than before. She’s clearly going somewhere, if for no other reason than she’s quick at hiding the bodies. Adam wants to return to his proper advisor position, rather than giving up duties to Emma or, god forbid, Phil: there’ll have to be a statement or two by Fergus on how their working relationship will not be compromised, but probably they can sneak it through on a day with bigger news for the hounds to enjoy and get back to normal.

Stretched out on the sofa on a rare evening without Fergus, he looks over the list of suggestions they have so far. Nothing inspiring: mostly unconvincing stories Fergus could tell the press, or Phil’s useful suggestion that they avert it ‘Red Wedding style’ (he’d then proceeding to explain to them what that meant, in far more detail than they wanted, which was none). Adam is starting to wonder if they could stay fake engaged indefinitely and just stop mentioning it, and wait until everyone forgot, but he knows someone would remember. It would put a serious dampener on his love life (when he thinks this, he has to amend it from ‘the rest of his love life’, pointing out to himself that this is not his love life at all, but a political move).

He looks up at the TV, unable to remember which channel he left it on. Background chatter helps him work, trained on busy offices in a restless city. He’s too used to the sounds of Fergus now, despite the initial annoyance: him fiddling with things, dropping stuff, breathing loudly. On the screen, a woman throws clothes out of a window, presumably aimed at the man on the street below. They’re both yelling, not listening to one another. Probably the communication issues that caused what Adam has worked out is a break up in the first place, if the writing is consistent that is. And then, watching the man’s embarrassment as an ugly patterned shirt lands by his feet, Adam realises they can catch the press’ attention, indulge Mary’s strange wish for dramatics and end this sham of an engagement, all with a simple solution.

He’s got to kick Fergus out.

 

-

 

Standing in the street, clutching a pile of his shirts and with two suitcases by his feet, Fergus wishes they could’ve found another way to do it. He’s cold, he looks like an idiot, and Adam is shouting at him, telling Fergus to stop taking him for granted. They decided a little shouting would look good.

Nearby, the press lurk. They’ve been anonymously tipped off (by Angela, so that none of them had actually done it) that Fergus Williams, governmental bitch and the shining face of equal marriage, is having a relationship-breaking fight that’ll leave all other gossip and political news laying pathetically in the corner. A slight exaggeration, but they came. A few photos, a few stories, and then all Fergus has to do is mop it up with a speech in a few days (after the tension has built a bit), explaining the new situation and how it will not compromise his crusade for equality, or some other bullshit like that. Adam’s plan, all of it. Fergus got a phone call days ago, Adam talking quickly and excitedly about how he’d worked it out, and it’d be _dramatic_.

Fergus wasn’t sure about dramatic. He liked the idea of low key, followed by a good press statement. His acting ambitions left him aged seven when he tripped over his costume in the school play (a heavily cut and rewritten version of _Julius Caesar_ for some reason) and fell into the audience, entangled in his bedsheet-toga. Still, Adam was insistent, and Mary had agreed. They had to end it well, convincingly, or it would’ve all been for nothing.

So now he’s having a fake break up that feels slightly like a real one: after the months of living mostly in Adam’s spare room, he’s being kicked out, standing outside like a fucking idiot whilst people watch. Beforehand, whilst they were waiting for the right moment for Fergus to leave, he had wanted to say something, to thank Adam perhaps, or tell him that it’d been nice to stay there. He didn’t, of course. He made sure his packing looked as hasty as possible and walked around aimlessly, wondering what Adam’s neighbours would think. Adam himself had been similarly restless, eventually stepping right up to Fergus (Fergus had thought for a few seconds that he was going to kiss him, and had panicked about what to do) and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt, plus loosening his tie, remarking that he must look harassed, like he’d been arguing. Fergus thought at the time that Adam’s fingers had lingered, but now he was sure he’d simply dragged time out due to nerves. They were about to fake break up, after all.

Fergus gets into a taxi, clutching his belongings. Not all of them, actually, just the ones that’d look best for him to be carrying. Adam’s bringing the rest over to his later, once their little drama is over.

‘Good fucking riddance,’ shouts Adam as Fergus closes the door, which he thinks is a bit over the top, but it was Adam’s plan.

Streets pass by, blurring in front of Fergus’ glazed over vision. He should be checking his phone, where he must have texts from everyone about how it went, and probably instructions from both Adam and Mary. Instead, he listens to the sound of the engine and thinks _I’m not sure I wanted to leave_.

 

-

 

Within half an hour, the story is starting to spread. Adam, laptop on the dining table and phone in hand, is not missing out on any of it. Using every last one of his journalism contacts, and a number of other governmental ones thanks to Emma who seems to know more and more what Mary is up to, he is going to control this story. It will be reported, reported as gossip, and then it will not turn into some scandal. Instead, it will make Fergus seem human, someone with break ups and the willpower to keep on going afterwards. Adam himself may seem like a bit of a bastard, but, well, he doesn’t give a fuck.

His text alert goes off. Expecting Fergus, he looks down at the screen. Angela.

_Broken up alright? No lingering feelings?_

_Fuck off_ , he replies concisely. He knows what she’s getting at, and he doesn’t like it. Wanting to fuck Fergus is no big deal. Everyone is attracted to people at work, and now they no longer will live most of the time in close quarters, he can go back to letting out his frustration with other people. Speaking of which, he thinks, he should go out tonight, find some bar somewhere where he just looks like another professional guy letting his hair down, and find someone to make up for the past four months of playing a part. A part very inaccurate considering the lack of actual sex. It’s not like they were meant to be pretending to be waiting until fucking marriage.

After another hour, he wonders why the fuck Fergus hasn’t contacted him. Surely a ‘got home fine’ or something is common courtesy after you pretend to break off your fake engagement, he reasons. Regardless, he’s dropping off the rest of Fergus’ stuff later, so Fergus can’t avoid him, even if he’s angry at the embarrassment of Adam yelling at him. Maybe the stupid twat took it personally, Adam thinks, and believes Adam actually wanted to get rid of him. Maybe he should say something when he goes over, reassure Fergus that actually it was like an extension of their friendship, an extension where they could watch shit TV at midnight and bitch about the news together over breakfast. An extension Adam had done entirely for Fergus, because he didn’t give a shit how the government looked in their quest to seem like lovely, fluffy humans.

Without thinking much about it, he changes his outfit into something more casual than the suit he was wearing, putting on an open-collared shirt that he particularly likes. He might go out afterwards. Fergus had left his stuff in a box in the living room, but Adam scans round the other rooms checking for things he might have forgotten, as if he’ll never see Fergus again or be able to give him back things. Just being thorough. He doesn’t want to annoy Fergus over this as well as yell at him in one day. Not today.

Taxi with a stupid fucking massive box. Adam realises halfway there that he’s nervous, nervous about seeing the guy he’s been fake engaged to for months. He checks his phone, but still nothing from Fergus. Shit, he thinks, it’s starting to feel like they actually broke up. How fucking ironic.

Outside Fergus’ door, he puts down the box to fiddle with his shirt, then tries to stand like he hasn’t fussed at all and rings the doorbell. Fergus opens the door, looking exactly the same as he did when he left (Adam’s not sure what he expected, maybe some dramatic transformation, like Fergus wearing skinny jeans and a hat).

‘Delivery service,’ grins Adam, gesturing at the box on the floor. Fergus looks worried, like his possessions are here to get him. ‘They won’t bite.’

‘Come in,’ says Fergus finally. Adam bends down for the box, but Fergus does too and their heads bump into one another.

‘Sorry!’ they mutter identically, then look up and laugh. Adam gestures and picks up the box this time, following Fergus inside. Fergus’ flat looks like someone blind or utterly without taste decorated it, but Adam thinks this every time he’s been inside it so he’s prepared by now. Instead of moving into a room like any normal person, Fergus stands awkwardly in the hall like he’s not sure what to do when someone else enters his home. Adam automatically wants to usher him into a room, any room, if it stops him standing there, but then his brain has a better idea. He puts down the box, steps over it, and, barely keeping his balance, kisses Fergus.

Fergus kisses back, which afterwards Adam will realise he didn’t quite expect. There’s no time to consider it, though. He’s getting into it, maneuvering Fergus against the wall with the same confidence he uses when suggesting ideas and plans to the other guy, but suddenly Fergus breaks away, looking panicked.

Ah, Adam thinks, just as he fucking expected. The reason he had never tried initiating anything before. Fergus isn’t interested. He coughs and steps back, trying to appear casual.

‘Well, I should be going,’ he says with an air of nonchalance, mentally wondering which bar to visit, or at least visit first.

Fergus gapes, looking like he wants to speak, but when he does, he simply says ‘Thanks for my stuff’ and Adam walks out the door, ready for a bloody good meaningless shag. Fuck Fergus Williams, he thinks, and not like that.

 

-

 

Everyone in DoSAC stares at him as he enters, late. Fergus looks down at the ground and continues to his office. He knows they’re staring because of the news, the news that has spread as Adam planned it would and without suspicion of its honesty, but he feels like they’re staring because of what happened afterwards. Staring and thinking _you fucked up, Fergus Williams_. He knows that’s what he did now. It’s amazing what a sleepless night will let you know.

A sleepless night spent replaying the kiss, the stupid fucking kiss that should not have made Fergus panic as he did, worrying not at first that he liked it, but that Adam didn’t. That this was something Adam knew how to do and Fergus was fucking it up. Consigned to the bit of ‘people not worth kissing’. He had grumbled at that thought and turned over, as if to banish it away. Eventually, by the morning, he had decided slightly recklessly that he would not forget it. He couldn’t.

So used to turning up to work with Adam (or to turning up to find Adam sitting on his office sofa with his laptop and a smug ‘ha I beat you to work’ grin on the mornings Fergus didn’t stay at his), Fergus feels strangely alone as he steps into his office. He can hear Peter’s voice echoing from somewhere, and hopes the minister is not approaching him. He can’t be fucked with dealing with Peter Mannion right now. It’s time for lying low and doing some boring ministerial work until he has to make some closing speech in a few days. It is also, he decided during his third cup of coffee this morning to get him out of his front door, time for saying something to Adam.

Peter’s voice disappears, but then he hears Adam’s instead, getting louder as he approaches.

‘You’re late,’ he remarks pointlessly as Adam walks in, his brain not considering the words his mouth is speaking.

‘Had a meeting with Mary and Emma and some random other fucking advisors so we couldn’t discuss the actually useful-’

Adam does not get to complete his sentence, because by this point Fergus has crossed his office and resumed where they left off the evening before. He did not need to think for that. Fergus has no clue how much time passes. They don’t shut the door, don’t think of the transparent parts of the office walls, just kiss fervently with the kind of abandon Fergus is not used to.

‘Fuck, we should-’ murmurs Adam, waving a hand towards the door.

At that moment, as if she’d been summoned by the forces of bad fucking timing, Emma walks in, talking as she rounds the corner as a thankful warning.

‘-so Mary wants to know-’

She stops and stares at them: breathless, Fergus pressing Adam against the wall in a reversal of the night before that surprised even him.

‘Let me guess?’ Adam interjects. ‘You thought it was fake, thought we’d broken up, thought the sky was fucking blue, that kind of thing?’

‘No.’ Emma smirks. ‘I thought you’d never do this, just die of sexual frustration from spending too much time together.’

‘Could you fuck off?’ Fergus asks. Adam’s hand is running down his side purposefully and he feels like someone who’s just realised they really like chocolate ice cream and suddenly needs to eat chocolate ice cream forever. It’s a shit analogy, but he’s not all that coherent.

‘No, because you’re at fucking work,’ points out Emma. ‘But I will, only because if you two giggly little boys don’t work out what’s going on between you, you’ll fuck up this whole thing. Sort it out before I send Phil in and then you’ll have to watch him celebrate by comparing you to hobbits somehow.’

She glares in warning and walks out.

‘So,’ Adam says, and Fergus holds his breath, waiting for the excuses. ‘You can’t stay over mine tonight, considering our little soap opera yesterday, so you’d better invite me over yours or I might just turn up anyway.’

‘You’re invited if you make dinner too,’ Fergus smiles, his head light.

‘Just for you, you twat.’

 

-

 

Emma leaves for work on Friday morning to the tune of Angela’s parting ‘please laugh at Adam for me then invite him and Fergus over for dinner so we can mock them together’. She smiles to herself. It’s an amusing day.

In a surprise turn that shocked exactly nobody who knew the truth of the whole matter to begin with, the announcement Fergus was scheduled to give today has changed somewhat. Yesterday, a meeting was convened, a new speech decided upon. Fergus will announce a minor policy, as if that was what was the planned announcement, and then will tack on an explanation for the well-documented apparent break up as a minor argument that they will work through, as anybody else would. Just like that, they will stop talking about Fergus and Adam, and hope the press will do the same, bored now that they’re not in the political spotlight. They can always make a new announcement in the future that they quietly broke up, should it be needed (although Emma and Mary agreed upon this after the meeting, not wanting to set off the already jittery Fergus when he had to make a speech the next day).

She walks into Fergus’ office with a knowing smirk, greeted with the usual sight of Fergus sitting at his desk and Adam standing beside him, looking down as they talk. The only difference is that they look slightly less awkward to be staring at each other, Emma thinks.

‘Hello lovers,’ she says, ‘Sorry, I would’ve gotten a card, but there wasn’t one for “we pretended to be married and now we’re shagging” so I didn’t bother.’

‘There’s no card for “I’m a smug bitch who’s sucking up to Drake Dastardly because I can’t do my current job well enough” either, sorry,’ Adam responds, singing out the sorry.

‘Just don’t fuck up,’ she warns Fergus, ignoring Adam’s comment. ‘Oh, and Angela says to come to dinner so we can laugh at you.’

Emma smiles and walks out. She has to admit, the twats suit each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, as long as you're now judging me for how ridiculous that was, I've done my job.


End file.
